"Nonsense," he said. "We'll both, be dead in the morning."
"You offer me your guest-room?" she said in pretence of surprise. "How very nice of you, Mr. Neville. I—ah—will condescend to occupy it—for this evening only—" Her eyes brightened into laughter: "Oh, isn't it delicious, Louis! Isn't it perfectly heavenly to know that we are utterly and absolutely all right,—and to know that the world outside would be perfectly certain that we are not? What a darling you are!"
Still holding her hands behind her back she bent forward and touched her lips to his, daintily, fastidious in the light contact,
"Where is that picture of 'Womanhood'?" she asked.
He drew out the easel, adjusting the canvas to the light, and rolled a big chair up in front of it.
"Please sit there," she said; and seated herself on the padded arm, still keeping her hands behind her back.
"Are you concealing anything from me?" he asked.
"Never mind. I want to look at your picture," she added slowly as her eyes fell upon the canvas.
Minute after minute she sat there in silence, neither stirring nor offering comment. And after a long time he moved restlessly in the depths of the chair beside her.
Then she turned and looked down at him: